High Up Above or Down Below
by kalina16
Summary: Gamora is fine, she really is. But years under Thanos are not so easily forgotten, and those years have a tendency of coming back to her at the worst of times.


**SO MANY FICS AND SO LITTLE TIME. SOMEONE STOP ME. Seriously, this is getting out of hand. I wrote this entire thing in class while I was supposed to be paying attention to future imperfect conjugation of French verbs, so apologies if it seems too fast-paced! And man, all I can write is angst that makes a whip-lash turn for fluffy at the end lately. I need to get back to my multi-chapter fic.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>They catch them by surprise.<p>

One minute Gamora is walking down the darkened, abandoned street with her friends, laughing at something Peter's said as they head towards the _Milano_. The next, there are dark figures rushing out of the shadows, faces hidden and knives drawn.

It is not entirely unexpected – every single one of them has been attacked like this at one point in their dark, crime-ridden pasts. So there is no real reason to panic. They have their weapons out in a heartbeat, Groot growling as his branches writhe ominously. They meet the assassins' attack with steel and blaster fire, more than capable of holding their own.

There is no real concern, not really – and that is probably why it affects Gamora so badly when she is grabbed from behind.

She is mid-strike against the cold steel of an assassin's sword when she feels strong arms roughly grab her from behind, pinning her arms behind her back. Even then, it is a hold from which she can easily escaped, has escaped before. It shouldn't be a problem.

But she is not expecting it.

And the scene, the dark atmosphere and the cruel, wrenching hands is horribly, horribly familiar, and for one second-

_-the world is aflame, the screaming of her people echoing in her ears, a large, dark figure stalking forward, her parent's blood flooding the floor, hands pulling her away as she sobs-_

She screams, loud and raw and painful, and rips her arms free, pulling away and stabbing viciously, shrieking as her knife slices through the assassin's skin. Hot blood splatters her hands as she stumbles back, the dark figures closing in on her-

_-rough hands holding her, strapping her to metal tables, sharp instruments and cruel laughter and pain, raw screams and the smell of her blood-_

The world blurs, her mind caught in a haze of panic as she whirls, stabbing and slashing frantically, again, and again, and again, until she no longer registers the sensation of metal slicing through flesh. A buzzing rings in her ears, her mind too caught up in the hysteria of battle to register the panicked cries around her, stuck on the single mantra _survivesurvivesurvive_-

"_Agh!"_

The single, pained cry stops her dead, knives halting mid swing. She _knows_ that voice- nearly better than her own. Her stomach lurches as she notices the scarlet drops falling from the edge of her knife.

The assassins' blood was blue.

No._ Nonononono_-

She turns, her blood turning to ice as the swooping realization hits like a strike of her own knife. Standing amidst the bloodied corpses of the assassins is Peter, eyes wide, blood dripping steadily down his arm. Dripping from a lengthy gash in his forearm - a wound made by a weapon that is all-too familiar.

_NO._

Peter steps forward, hesitant, expression inscrutable.

"Hey- Gamora-"

"No," she pants, chest heaving. "Just-"

_-pain and rage, her screams mixing with Thanos' laughter, agony lacing her very bones, the corpses of her parents, the corpses of her victims-_

Peter's face, open and wide-eyed.

"Gamora-"

"Don't," she gasps harshly. "Stay- stay away."

A flash of hurt crosses his face, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender as he steps back. His arm is drenched in snaking lines of scarlet, fat droplets dripping slowly to the floor.

"Gamora," he whispers again, voice broken.

"Just-" she cannot breath, her panic strangling her. "Stay away from me," she gasps.

Peter's face crumples in pain and she runs.

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><p>Once, when she was still young and naïve and her hands free of bloodstain, just beginning her life under Thanos, he had her run a course, a training in endurance.<p>

The course wrapped its way around the dark planet, cutting through the rocky and unforgivable earth, stretching for miles until it circled back. She hated that course, and she hated running, hated the way her insides burned and her breath came out in strangling gasps. So she lagged, jogging carelessly, the clock ticking on and on. She was miserable enough as it was – there was nothing, she thought, that could spur her faster, her soul low and dead as it was.

She was wrong.

She tasted Thanos' rage for the first time that day. She has never, not in all her years, felt so much fear again as she felt that day.

She ran as if she was the wind itself, ran until her legs gave out and she collapsed to the ground, heaving.

That is how she runs now.

She runs away from the city, away from the bodies of the assassins, from her friends, her breath coming in stuttering gasps as her eyes flood.

She runs away from Peter.

She is caught in the panic, the adrenaline of her flashbacks, but underneath the terror is the clear image of Peter's pained expression, the gash on his arm.

The gash she put there.

She falls to her knees at the edge of the city, fingers digging into the dirt as dry, heaving sobs wrack her.

She hurt him. She _hurt_ him. She was better than that, she was in control, she swore she would never, ever needlessly cause hurt again, she didn't- she'd _never_ hurt someone she loved as much as she did him-

She wasn't better. She was worse. A monster, a hollow, rage-filled creature scarred forever with pain, marked forever by Thanos, a twisted, bitter _experiment_, capable of only hurt.

And her friends, kind and good and accepting-

Peter, warm and whole and loving-

And her, the dark stain in the bright picture, the poisonous, killing virus to Peter's love.

Her eyes burn as she sobs into the wind, her chest wrenching in agony. She rocks back and forth, arms wrapped around her middle as she grasps for anything, _anything_, even a semblance of her normal composure.

She can't. Because she's done it now, finally – she's scarred the best thing in her life, bled her darkness onto the light she loves so much.

Her love is poison, she thinks bitterly. It only hurts.

She sits there, on the edge of the city, the harsh winds whipping her hair as she kneels in the dirt. The tears dry on her face, the salt stiffening as her arms remain wrapped around her middle, holding herself together. She sits there for what must be hours.

The team will be wondering where she's gone - if they haven't left her already, horrified at her own monstrosity. She would gladly stay here forever, rotting in the wind, but of the many things she is, a coward is not one of them. She will face what she has brought upon herself.

She pushes herself off the ground, legs stiff as she turns – and stops dead.

Peter is leaning against the furthermost building, several yards away.

Her heart stutters, racing wildly as nausea rises in her throat. The white bandage wrapped around his forearm stands out starkly in the dark, a painfully clear reminder of what she's done. The burn in her eyes returns.

She steps forward shakily, refusing to meet his eyes. He stands up straighter, and she hears the soft crunch of his boots against the dirt as he draws near, stopping an arm length's distance away from her. She swallows.

"Peter," her voice is raw from sobbing, broken and quiet. "I-I-" She what? She's sorry for stabbing him? Sorry for dragging him down into her own darkness?"

"I'm sorry," Peter's voice cuts across her thoughts, low and quiet but _caring_. "I was stupid. I should have realized."

"W-what?" she manages, reeling in confusion. She risks a glance to his face. His eyes are heavy, sad and regretful. Why he would feel regret is beyond her.

"I should've noticed," he says regretfully. "I've seen it before, with the Ravagers – heck, with Rocket – I just forgot that you-" he bows his head. "Of course you would have them too. I'm just so _stupid_-"

"You-what?" Gamora breaks in, horribly lost.

"I should have realized you weren't really there, back there," Peter says. "And I approached the wrong way – I don't know if I scared you or what – but I'm sorry."

His tone is so saddened, his face so earnest the tears nearly make a reappearance.

"Peter," she strangles out. "I _hurt_ you."

"Yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his head. "But not _bad_. You just freaked out – it's normal, with us, remember?"

She shakes her head. Peter sighs.

"Gamora, it's fine – well, not fine, but…normal? Understandable," he says. "Remember last week? When Rocket nearly shot us after that nightmare?"

She does - how could she forget the blaster dangerously close to her face – but that's different, not that same.

"And Drax," Peter continues. "The other day, when I accidently knocked that glass over behind him and he freaked-"

She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut, and Peter finally steps forward. He touches her hand lightly, moving slowly, carefully, up her arm – unthreatening – to her face. He cups her cheek gently, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"And me," he says, eyes intense. "Saw that freaky purple lightning near Centuri Alpha and had a flashback – nearly wrecked the ship, remember?" She does.

"But that's-" she shakes her head. "It's not the same, it's not- you don't understand, I'm a monster, I'm flawed, I'm a wreck-"

"Hey," Peter says firmly, his other hand reaching up to her face. "We're all a wreck. We're all flawed. But none of us are monsters. No me, not Rocket, not Drax, not Groot, not you. I know that, Gamora." He gives her a slight smile.

"I'm a hundred percent sure of that. Because monsters don't go against their only sister for their own morals. Monsters don't throw away the biggest pay of their life to save thousands they don't know. Monsters aren't gentle when they bandage their friends, they don't go out of their way to make people feel better when they're weak."

Her eyes are flooding now, and she's still shaking her head, but Peter won't let go, his voice sincere.

"Monsters don't have special smiles they save for when they're truly, deeply happy because for the first time in forever they _belong_. They don't scream at their stupid boyfriend when he gets himself hurt because they're worried." He pulls her in, one hand tangled in her hair as she presses her face into his shoulder, his other hand warm and firm against her back.

"And I don't fall so, so completely in love with monsters that it makes me want to punch something when they think it's their fault ," he finishes, hugging her tightly. Her fingers tighten, clenching into his jacket as she clings to him.

"I'm pathetic," she whispers after a beat. "Pathetic and broken and I'm only going to hurt you-"

"Nope. Nope, nope, and nope," Peter says. "All lies. I thought you said you had honor, Gamora." She huffs, frustrated.

"Peter, I'm serious-"

"And so am I," he says, pulling back to look at her. "So stop it with the monster schtick. It's dumb, and more importantly, false."

"But I-"

"No objections," he says firmly. "Leader's orders." She gives up, falling back against his chest.

"You're infuriating."

"I love you too," he says, a smile in his voice.

Scarred and haunted – but Thanos' darkness cannot last forever.

She is healing.


End file.
